Snowed In
by InMyArmsAgain
Summary: Even when going into labour, Sherlock cannot help being Sherlock. Now, if only the weather would cooperate with him. Established JohnLock and Mpreg.


**_A/N: Hey folks!_**

**_Alright, I feel like I have some explaining to do. I have been writing fanfictions for quiet some time, but this is the first one I felt okay about posting. This story originally started out a possible ending to a longer fic that I have yet to even start. However, the idea of it was just too tantalizing to wait for. So for better or for worse, I sat down at my laptop and killed that plot bunny. It all came together in probably four days._**

**_Warnings: Slash and established JohnLock. Mpreg! (I'm not going into detail about how it's possible in this particular story because I felt as though I didn't have time), and it is slightly graphic. If the idea makes you cringe, I would strongly advise that you click back here. It's also slightly fluffy, though I tried my best to keep it at a minimum._**

**_Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. By extension, character names and locations belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I claim no ownership whatsoever._**

**_Enjoy!_**

**SH**

It was the worst storm that London had seen in nearly twenty years, the men on telly reckoned. For such a temperate environment, one would think that it would be difficult to surprise the English people with their weather. True, snowstorms were very much the norm every winter, and the occasional blizzard did not often stir up too big of a panic. England had survived snow before, and they would survive again. But all of that changed when news stations began broadcasting images of Scottish villages that had all but disappeared under mountains of snow and ice. Yorkshire was next to be buried, followed by Manchester. When Birmingham was hit, the people of London started to worry. Surely, this would pass over them; this was a problem for the northern folk. But sure enough, it was within days that the report went out that the storm system was over Buckinghamshire and headed southeast. All hell broke loose, regardless of how many times London was warned about widespread hysteria. Supermarkets were cleaned out, and petrol stations were sucked dry. Shutters were closed, and families were quarantined behind tightly locked doors.

London was officially in a state of war-like suspension.

Sherlock watched the falling snow from the sofa, staring across the room to the uncovered window. The storm had arrived just before dawn, and he found it disparaging that the national hobby was watching oneself be buried alive. Worse than that was the fact was that he was buying into that madness. Then again, it wasn't as though there was much else he could do right now. Lethargically, he smoothed a pale hand over the massive mound of his stomach, pausing to feel an uncomfortable shift of a small elbow beneath his thin fingers.

Being pregnant could not have been a more conflicting experience for the detective. He didn't really mind the fact that he was carrying a child inside of him. In fact, he and John had happily welcomed the news when they discovered Sherlock's condition all those months ago. But by God, he hated how this had affected his daily life, especially in these last few weeks. Lestrade had stopped calling in cases over a month ago, having put his foot down about Sherlock demanding to be let out to investigate crime scenes, even if he was heavily pregnant. Sherlock was also banned from most types of home experimenting by John, which of course meant anything interesting. Throw that together with a blizzard of biblical proportions, and life was now just boring, boring, _boring!_ Sherlock could feel his brain rotting away inside his head, desperate for some kind of mental release that didn't involve solving every possible outcome in Cluedo.

At least he wouldn't be suffering through this for much longer.

"Looking at it is not going to make it stop, love," John said from his chair by the fire, attracting Sherlock's attention. The detective rolled his fair eyes and turned back to the windowpane, blowing a black curl off his forehead. Leave it to his loving partner to poke fun of his boredom.

Ordinarily, John would have been working at the surgery at this hour. He might have even braved the snow to get to his office. But thankfully, since Sherlock's due date was days away, John had been granted a short paternity leave, allowing him to help Sherlock through these cumbersome last few weeks of pregnancy. Although, much of his time was devoted to spending time with his handsome detective before their baby boy came into the world.

"What else do you expect me to do?" mumbled Sherlock, folding his hands over his bump. "I never did like snow, it was always so dull. There was never anything fun about it."

"Is that so?" John reached over to grab his cooling mug of tea. "I would have hated to see your reaction to snow days when you were in school."

"Don't mock me, John." Sherlock sat up tediously, but only to give him the right amount of leverage to slouch over onto his side. He tugged his dressing gown in closer to his body. "Even if you lot would let me out of this flat, it would still be boring. The Yard is on their bloody storm patrol. If a man is stupid enough to kill a person in this storm, no one will know about it until the streets thaw out."

"Well, if getting out is all you wanted, I should have let you get all that shopping yesterday," John cracked, browsing through the business section of yesterday's paper. "God knows you would have had a ball of fun in those dreadful crowds. It's been a while since your deductions have humiliated someone in public."

"Quite right," Sherlock quipped back. "Now if only I were allowed to lift packages weighing more than five kilos."

"I'll say it again, Sherlock. It's better for the baby. And besides, you said it yourself. The whole city is held up right now. No one's going anywhere any time soon." The doctor heaved himself out of his chair, and he strolled over to the other side of the flat to where his expectant detective lay. He placed a kiss on the younger man's pale forehead. "You'll just have to wait it out like everyone else."

Sherlock's only response was to groan into his blue silk sleeve.

"Have you been paying attention to those Braxton-Hicks contractions like I told you?" John asked as he cleared away the empty cup Sherlock had been taking his morning tea in. "The midwives did say it could be any time now."

"Yes John," Sherlock droned, staring off into space. "Regrettably, that is what they always turn out to be. It seems the universe is determined to make me go mad." And you probably will, John thought to himself. He honestly did have to feel bad for Sherlock; almost two months without any stimulation would be tough on the average bloke, let alone one as mental as his partner. Running his fingers through soft, dark curls, he silently assured Sherlock that it was going to be better soon. He then returned to his chair and his paper, watching the shadow of snowflakes dance across Sherlock's face out of the corner of his eye.

It was still midmorning when John decided to mix up a warming pot of wheat porridge, if only as another method of heating up the flat. Not that he assumed that his boyfriend was hungry. Actually, he doubted that Sherlock would eat any of it. The detective had surprisingly picked up some better habits since finding out about his pregnancy, but late-term indigestion meant that he could hardly stomach anything these days. He decided to put on another pot of tea just in case. He heard Sherlock's tired, bored groan float into the kitchen, and John rolled his eyes to the ceiling, though not without a smirk.

It was never a dull day with Sherlock Holmes, and that was one of the reasons why John loved him.

Just then there was a sharp tapping and a "Woho!" at their door, and Mrs. Hudson dashed into the flat, bundled up in her fluffy yellow dressing gown. Blowing into hands, she instantly dashed over to John's abandoned chair and sat down with a shiver.

"Cor blimey, it's bloody cold!" she gasped, tugging her collar closer around her neck. "Thank heavens you boys have already got a fire going."

"Heater go out again, Mrs. Hudson?" asked John as he strolled back into the living room.

"Oh yes," the older woman nodded. "If the damn thing breaks one more time, I'll have the whole thing ripped out. I knew I should have gotten it repaired that time before Christmas." John chuckled in his throat when he got a look at Mrs. Hudson's eyes. She was looking toward him in that subtly hopeful way that a mother would her son if she found herself in a jam. Being the only man in the building that was even remotely handy did come with its duties, he supposed. John offered her a cuppa and promised to look at the furnace once the snow let up.

"So Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson chirped as she turned to the man on the sofa. "How are you feeling?"

"I feel enormous," Sherlock murmured into the sofa cushion. "The little bugger has decided to take its sweet time in getting the hell out."

"What he's trying to say is that he's ready for this baby to come," said John, calling out from the kitchen. "He's tired of being cooped up here."

"Oh yes, the last few weeks are never fun. It was just the same way with my daughter. The week before she popped out, I was sure I was never going to be able to get out of bed ever again. But not to worry, Sherlock, you're not far off."

'_Yes, yes, stop reminding me,' _Sherlock thought irritably to himself.

"How high is the snow out there, Mrs. Hudson?" asked John, coming out of the kitchen with a tray of steaming mugs.

"It's already past my ankles," the elderly landlady exclaimed quietly, reaching up to accept her cup of tea. "Another few hours, and my bins will be gone." John placed Sherlock's refilled mug on a table where the heavily pregnant detective could reach it, and he set aside the tray on his desk, choosing to stand in the middle of the room as Mrs. Hudson turned on the television.

"_**Oi lads, this is making out to be the storm of the century. Only a few hours in, and we are already receiving reports of major auto accidents on the main roads, killing at least three people. Hospitals and police are tied up, and phone lines are down north of the city. And this is just the start of it. Residents are reminded to stay where they are, and that they should avoid using the phones except in the case of an emergency. For BBC news, I'm –,"**_

"Bleeding Christ, you would think it was the beginnings of the apocalypse," Mrs. Hudson chirped as she held her cup of tea up to her lips. Changing the channel, John couldn't help but look back at Sherlock to see the tremendous eye-roll he gave to that one.

"I would probably believe so if I was trapped in a news studio all night," he said with a smirk. "I can't help but think of the poor boys at Scotland Yard. Lestrade will be ready to strangle one of them by tonight."

Just before any of them could crack a joke about how Sherlock would finally have something to do, there was a soft grunt. John and Mrs. Hudson turned on a dime to the sofa, where Sherlock was trying to shift himself into a sitting position. His face had suddenly hardened, with his eyes closed firmly and his hand massaging over his rounded bump. Lines appeared in his forehead as he breathed deeply through his nose.

"You alright, Sherlock?" asked John, his voice suddenly laced with concern. "What are you feeling?"

"It's nothing, John," said Sherlock. "It's just another false contraction."

Upon hearing that, Mrs. Hudson set down her mug of tea with a long face. "Oh dear, are you sure?"

"Yes Mrs. Hudson, it's been going on for days. I am quite sure." Sherlock attempted to push himself up off the sofa, but he soon realized that he just did not have the proper leverage to support the weight of his abdomen. "John, help me up. I want to go lie down for a while."

John thought it was odd that Sherlock was going back to bed before it was even midday, but with the absence of cases and John's refusal to play that damn Cluedo game one more time, the consulting detective had been spending quite a lot of time in bed. At this point, the bed was the only moderately comfortable place left for a pregnant man. In the end, he decided it wasn't worth a row, and he held out his hand to Sherlock. He let out a soft grunt as he hauled his boyfriend to his feet. He tipped his head up for a kiss, and Sherlock obliged with a weak smile. John then retreated to his armchair to continue chatting with Mrs. Hudson.

Planting a hand on his lower back, Sherlock padded across the floor on bare feet, moving through the flat to the bedroom. The door swung to a slow close behind him, and he instantly eased himself down onto the edge of the bed. Sherlock let out a soft sigh as he rubbed at his distended bump, feeling the lasting ache of those bothersome cramps. He looked to the clock on his bedside table.

Third one this morning, he deduced to himself.

Sherlock was not unaccustomed to the feeling of labour pains; his first brush with Braxton-Hicks contractions had sent him and John on a wild ride to Saint Bart's that ended with both of them feeling like exceptional idiots, and he had been experiencing them on and off for the better part of a month. But for some reason, he felt that these contractions were different. They were no more painful than they usually were, and they were spaced out by almost a full hour, but they just felt different. It wasn't like Sherlock to be nervous, but he certainly was a little unsettled, and the phrase "any day now" reverberated through his head.

He quickly decided that he wouldn't bring this up with John. He loved his blogger dearly, but the man had gotten a tad bit jumpy in recent weeks. The last thing that Sherlock wanted was another false run to the hospital, especially in this hellish weather. The best course of action was to simply sit back (however infuriating that might be) and ride out these cramps like he had the others. After all, he did technically still have a week before his due date.

Slipping off his dressing gown, Sherlock leaned back onto the bed, and he relaxed on his left side, caressing his stomach as his son shifted inside of him. His eyes wandered over to the bassinet that lay waiting on the other side of the room as they drifted closed.

**SH**

John looked up from his plate at the dinner table as Mrs. Hudson walked back into to the kitchen, a half-finished bowl of pasta in her hands. The lines in his forehead thickened at the sight, but he let out a sigh as he got up to get himself a second helping from the pot in the stove. "I take it he's not that hungry?" he asked, carefully ladling warm sauce into his food.

"He said he's had his fill," replied Mrs. Hudson. "The poor dear. I hate seeing someone that miserable, and especially Sherlock."

"Even when he has a good reason for it, he doesn't take well to boredom," John commented. "And at least this time I confiscated his gun before he got any bright ideas." Mrs. Hudson gave a short little laugh, though John had the sense that it was only because it was expected of her. But he was in no mood to object. Instead, he simply sat himself back down at the table, and he tucked back into his meal. For some reason, food always seemed to taste better when their landlady had a hand in making it.

Mrs. Hudson floated over to the window, and she gently pulled back the curtain to look out over Baker Street. The snow was now coming down with tremendous force, and not even the dark of night could disguise the strength of the winds, or the sheer size of the flakes. The streets below had now disappeared under a blanket of white, untouched by anything except the lone footsteps of some poor soul. The elderly landlady had to admit it to herself; it had been a long time since she had seen snow like this, and she wondered how long it would take for the city to dig them all out.

"Are you sure that you boys don't mind if I stay up here for the night?" she asked as she crossed the flat back to the kitchen. "I wouldn't bother at all if it wasn't so Baltic downstairs."

"Mrs. Hudson, it's alright," said John. "If Sherlock knew that I sent you to spent the night in a freezing flat, he would rip my throat out. I only wish that we hadn't turned the upstairs bedroom into the nursery. The sofa cannot be good for your hip."

"It's no good for your back either," replied the old woman, nodding at John and wagging a finger. "Honestly dear, it's alright. Sherlock needs the bed more than I do. It's only one night after all."

"Indeed," John mused aloud. Foregoing the dirty dishes on the table, the ex-army doctor crossed the length of his flat to the window, tugging back the curtain with barely one finger. "Jesus, it really is coming down out there, isn't it?"

"Oh yes. I haven't seen a car pass by since around midday, though there was this poor bloke that stumbled down the road not too long ago. The lad looked near frozen on his feet."

John smirked slightly at the visual that popped into his head. "Oh really? Perhaps the next time we plunge into an ice age, we should open up the house as a shelter for frozen homeless."

Before Mrs. Hudson could mutter a response, she was interrupted by the sound of the bedroom door creaking open. Half-expecting for it to be another one of Sherlock's runs to the bathroom, but she and John turned their heads instinctively in the direction of the noise. Sherlock slowly stepped out into the hall, one hand sliding across the wall while the other rested on his round stomach. Even from a distance, his face was paler than usual, and his brow furrowed slightly.

"Sherlock," said John. "Are you alright?" The heavily pregnant detective leaned his arm against the wall, and he ran a palm across his forehead as he let out a soft sigh. He then looked up at John for what could have been an eternity before taking in a shaky breath.

"John… it's happening."

It took a few seconds for the words to sink in before John blinked and muttered, "Wha – what?"

"It's happening, John," repeated Sherlock. "The baby is coming."

Mrs. Hudson let out a sharp gasp as John practically flew through the air to land at Sherlock's side, grabbing ahold of his partner's arm. "God, Sherlock! How long have you been feeling contractions? How far apart are they?"

"John, calm down," Mrs. Hudson rushed from across the flat. "Just because he says the baby's coming doesn't mean it'll be in the next five minutes."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock ground out, tensing slightly. He tugged himself out of John's firm grip, and he took his partner's hand in his. "Tedious as it is, John, I am quite sure that I am in labour."

"How far apart are they, love?" asked John, but before Sherlock could speak, a contraction swept over him. Taken by unpleasant surprise, he hunched over himself with a sharp groan, still clinging to John's hand. With all the stubbornness and willpower in his being, he forced himself to speak past the crushing pain building up in his stomach. "Ss…ss…"

John leaned in with raised, worried eyebrows. "Ss…seven?"

"Six…" moaned Sherlock. The pain started to recede a bit, and the detective wilted against the wall, a new sheen of sweat on his brow.

"Six?!" John exclaimed. "You could be in active labour by now, Sherlock! How long has this been going on?"

"I'm in labour, John. What does it matter how long it has been?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. Hudson suddenly scolded. "Now is not the time for this. We're here to help you, dear. The least you can give us is some truth." Sherlock swallowed hard, glancing at the old woman out of the corner of his eye. The lines in his face got deeper when she turned to his frustrated boyfriend. He tried to think of some clever way out of this one, but the ebbing contraction reminded him that he was in no condition for a row. He swallowed again, cradling his stomach gently.

"They've been coming most of the day, but I wanted to see if they would become more regular. They've been six minutes apart for the last hour."

"Holy shit! Sherlock!" John threw his hands up in the air, his voice rising right along with them. "Why didn't you say something to us? We should have been at Bart's by now! How could you keep this from me?"

"Well excuse me if I didn't want to dash out to the hospital in the snow only to be told to turn around and trudge on home again."

"Six minutes, Sherlock! You should have spoken up when they were eight minutes apart!"

"Alright, alright, that's enough!" shouted Mrs. Hudson. She stepped forward and took Sherlock's arm to lead him toward the living room. "I won't stand for rowing when there's a baby on the way. Never mind what's happened, let's just focus on the situation from here. John, try and see if you can call a cab. Sherlock, come with me. You need to rest up."

"Argh, please don't make me sit down," groaned Sherlock. "It hurts more to sit." Slowly, the laboring man padded across the floor and leaned forward onto the wall outside the kitchen. Ever attentive, Mrs. Hudson came over to place a comforting hand on the small of Sherlock's back.

John swallowed hard, the pained look on his partner's face making him feel like he was going to be sick, and his mind raced. Sherlock was in labour, but were they ready for this? Was John ready to coach Sherlock through the pain? How the hell were they going to get to Bart's? And above all, were the detective and the doctor ready to become parents? In the chaos that was assaulting him mentally, he almost forgot what was happening, that is until Mrs. Hudson chirped at him loudly from Sherlock's side. John jumped in his skin, and he lunged for his mobile, which sat atop the kitchen table. In his haste, the phone slid from his hand, and John juggled for a second or two until he got a good grip again. Running through the mental check-list of his and Sherlock's labour plan, he pressed down on the appropriate speed dial and held the phone to his ear.

"_**Hello, you have reached the Call-a-Cab hotline. Due to the inclement weather, all of our cabbies are temporarily off duty until further notice. We apologize for any inconvenience this might have caused, and we hope you stay safe during the storm." **_

John had to bite the inside of his cheek to prevent any aggravated noises from escaping his lips, and he just barely resisted the urge to throw his phone to the floor. But John quickly composed himself; he could not freak out at a time like this. He took a deep breath, and he adjusted how his thick jumper fit around his waist. But before he could turn and break the bad news, he heard Sherlock gasp out. John was at his side before they could blink, and he immediately offered his hand to his boyfriend. Sherlock gripped it tightly as he let out a low groan, a groan that only got louder as the contraction progressed.

"That was only five minutes," said Mrs. Hudson. "They're getting closer together, John. Did you get through to the cabbie service?"

"I only got the answer machine," John explained. "There's no one there because of the storm."

"Fuck!" growled Sherlock, both in pain and frustration. "John, this kid is killing me! I don't know how much longer we have!"

"Sherlock, just calm down," John said in his calm, soothing tone that always relaxed the other man. "We'll get to the hospital, we will. We just need to stay calm." He carefully leaned over to look around Sherlock's back at their landlady. "Mrs. Hudson, my emergency kit is in the bathroom. Could you bring it here please?"

Without a single word in response, Mrs. Hudson dashed passed the two boys and rushed down the hall. John meanwhile took Sherlock's arm to guide him over to the sofa, easing him down slowly and carefully. "I'm going to have to check you, love," he explained. "I need to know how dilated you are, so we can tell how much longer we'll be at this." Sherlock didn't look terribly thrilled with that prospect, but he did give a terse nod, and he leaned back into the sofa.

Mrs. Hudson came back in with her hands firmly clasped around the handles of John's medical bag, and she set it down at the doctor' feet. "Mrs. Hudson," John began as he pulled out a set of latex gloves. "Would you mind stepping out for a –,"

"No," Sherlock abruptly interrupted. John paused, a bit bewildered until he saw how Sherlock held out his hand to the old woman. It hit him that while he wanted to be a doting partner to Sherlock, John needed to be a doctor first in this instance. And in his vulnerable, weakened state, Sherlock needed to feel steady support. Like a lioness in the savannah, Mrs. Hudson heard this mother's call, and she took hold of Sherlock's hand to receive his tight, nervous grip.

John gave Sherlock a short, apologetic look before carefully tugging down his pajama bottoms just enough to slip his hand under the waistband of Sherlock's pants, and the detective let out a sharp hiss as John's skilled fingers entered him.

"Oh Sherlock, you're five centimeters dilated," he informed them, pulling his hand out as quickly as he was careful. "You're already halfway there."

"You can't be serious," groaned Sherlock. "John, this cannot happen. Our son will not be born in this flat."

"You're telling me." John quickly disposed of the gloves, and he crossed the flat, taking Mrs. Hudson with him into the kitchen. Once there, he started pacing back and forth around the room, massaging his temples.

"This is bad," he muttered, half to himself. "He's already five centimeters, and he'll be progressing a lot faster from there. Jesus, I could have gotten him to the hospital hours ago!"

"You still can, love," said Mrs. Hudson. She spoke with a low, soothing tremor, letting John know that her job now was to keep him sane for the time being. "We still have some time. We just need to find suitable transport."

Before John could groan out his sincere doubt about that, a great shout sounded from the other room. Mrs. Hudson jumped in her skin, and John rushed out in a flash. Sherlock was hunched over his aching middle, gripping his belly as he cried out through gritted teeth. "John!" he shouted as his partner flew to his side and took his hand in his own.

"Breathe Sherlock," instructed John. "In and out, like we practiced." Sherlock could not get past the incredible pain that had suddenly crashed over him in the form of a strong contraction, but he still had enough sense to try and follow John's example. His breathing came in deep, long gasps as he gripped to John for dear life.

"Holy hell," he rasped. "They're getting worse, John."

"Alright, that does it," said Mrs. Hudson. She grabbed the landline from off of John's desk, and she brought it right over to where he sat on the sofa. "Call an ambulance, dear. We've got to get him out of here." This time, John didn't even need to think twice about what he was being told to do. He grabbed the phone from Mrs. Hudson's hand, and leaving her with the laboring detective, he walked to the other side of the flat, dialing the number instinctively.

"_**9-9-9, what is your emergency?"**_

"Yes, I need an ambulance, right away." John tried to sound as composed as possible, if only to keep Sherlock from panicking. "My partner is thirty-nine weeks pregnant, and he's gone into labour. Please, he needs help quickly." But to his shock and appall, instead of droll, rehearsed operator's discourse, he heard a hard scoff at the other end of the line.

"_**Oi, mate, have you looked outside? The snow's halfway up our front door! There's no way anyone can get through that storm in time."**_

"No, you don't understand," John tried to reason. "His contractions are barely five minutes apart, and they're getting stronger. He's already dilated to five centimeters. He needs a hospital!"

"_**Him and a million others out there calling up every time they get a paper cut. I'm sorry sir, but there is nothing I can do. I am under strict orders to only deploy emergency teams in situations that are considered life and death. You said that he was five centimeters dilated. I assume that means you have medical training."**_

"Yes, I do, but –,"

"_**Then you will have to make due for now. I can put in a report to all area hospitals, but I cannot guarantee that an ambulance would be able to make it there in time." **_Just to add insult to injury, the operator added in possibly the phoniest sympathy possible, _**"I do apologize, sir, many regrets." **_

"You little –," John snarled as he slammed his foot down onto the floor. On this night of all nights, he had to get the most unprofessional operator in the country. The vicious insults were on the tip of his tongue when out of nowhere, the phone was ripped out of his hand. John turned his head in time to see Mrs. Hudson's turned back with the phone pressed to her ear.

"Look dear, I understand that you have a sticky situation with this dreadful weather, but clearly, you do not understand our plight. This poor boy is in the midst of childbirth, and – a life and death situation, you say? Are you just waiting for some poor sod to drop dead?! Well, I will have you know that having a baby can be a life and death situation outside of a hospital – what do you mean, we have a doctor present! This is the baby's father we're talking about! He has enough to worry about as it is! – Ah ah, don't give me any of that rubbish that you're busy. I'm in Westminster, and I have not seen one emergency vehicle since this snow started. The entire city is huddled up in their houses, and you say that you're busy? No, no! I don't want you to transfer to your supervisor! I want you to send an ambulance to 221B Baker Street before I come down there myself and hang you high for all of London to see! Mark my words, Downing Street will hear about this!"

She turned on her slippered heel and slammed the phone down into its base. After letting out a hard exhale, she whirled back around to look at her two tenants. John stood frozen by his chair with wide eyes and tightly pressed lips, and even Sherlock had recovered from his contraction enough to stare at his motherly landlady.

"He said he would send for the first ambulance that becomes available," she explained, as though nothing had happened. She then walked into the kitchen to make Sherlock a relaxing cuppa.

John tottered over to the sofa, and he bent over to let Sherlock get an arm around his neck. They then rose up off the sofa together. They both exchanged a knowing look as they came to the same conclusion; whatever they did, they did not want to truly cross Mrs. Hudson, Baker Street's own version of a wolf in sheep's clothing.

"How are you feeling?" asked John, resting his hand on Sherlock's hard bump.

"I'm fine," murmured Sherlock. He leaned into John's embrace during this respite between pains, and there was a certain wrinkle in his brow that almost anyone would miss, anyone except John. A worn finger floated up to stroke down Sherlock's thin jawline.

"You know, it's okay to be scared," said John. Sherlock however just shook his head. As he felt the beginnings of his next contraction, all he could do was cling to the shoulder of John's jumper. Too many emotions were rushing through his head right now; he didn't have time to be scared.

**SH**

"John, if I make it through this, I'll fucking kill you!" Sherlock growled against his Adam's apple, his threat cut off but a sharp shout. Two hours had passed, and there was still no sign of the ambulance. In that time, the time between contractions had decreased from five minutes to three, and then to two, getting longer and stronger with every wave. While they had hoped that this being Sherlock's first baby would draw out the labour and buy them some time, it was become clear that Sherlock would be giving birth a lot sooner than later. Panic was brimming throughout the flat.

"Easy, Sherlock," coached John, who was kneeling down beside the detective as he leaned into the side of their bed. "Just keep breathing, love."

"Fuck breathing!" snapped Sherlock, though he did take in deep, rattled gasps of air through his nose. "Make it stop, John. Make it stop!"

"Oh, hold on Sherlock," crooned Mrs. Hudson, rubbing circles into Sherlock's bare back. He had ripped off both his dressing gown and his shirt some time ago, when the heat around him was getting to be too much for the laboring man. "Help is on the way, dear. Just hang in there."

Another wave of pain crashed over Sherlock's body, and he cried out at the top of his lungs, smothering his face into the bed coverings. John swallowed hard, barely containing his own nerves as he whispered that he needed to check Sherlock's progress again. At the rate the contractions were coming, he had to be further along. Sure enough, John found him to be at seven centimeters, almost an eight even. Sherlock was going into transition labour, and that meant that it would not be much longer.

In a moment of weakness, John had to leave Sherlock with Mrs. Hudson, but only to get away from the sight of his beloved detective in such agony. Pressing his hands to his head, he paced around the kitchen, trying desperately to collect his thoughts. He couldn't do this; he couldn't deliver their baby here. He was so focused on aiding Sherlock that he would never be able to focus on what he was doing. But every time he looked out the window at the white haze that thundered down from above, he realized with growing fear that he might not have a choice. Overwhelmed emotion, John would not have liked anything more than a good breakdown. But then he heard the sounds of Sherlock's desperate pants and grunts, and something else rose up in him. He needed to stay strong. He needed to make sure that everything would be alright for Sherlock and their little boy.

They had been through worse situations than this, and they always came back alright in the end. They couldn't stop this baby from coming, and if they would have to deliver him there, they would have to be ready for it.

"Mrs. Hudson!" John called out as he moved to the sink to fill a pot with water. The flustered old woman appeared quickly, and John tossed her a swift look before continuing with what he was doing. "I need you to find as many clean towels as possible, and then you need to find something we could use to tie off the umbilical cord."

"Do you really think the baby will be born here?" asked Mrs. Hudson as she watched John put the full pot on the stove to boil. John turned away quickly to the living room, pulling his phone from his pocket. "I really hope not, but I'm not holding my breath." With a knowing nod, Mrs. Hudson dashed out the door and ran down the stairs to fetch those items from her flat. John watched her leave out of the corner of his eye as he pounded out the number on his keypad, and he almost couldn't breathe as he listened to the call tone.

"_**Detective Inspector Lestrade," **_the weary voice reverberated in John's ear, causing him to almost jump onto his desk with exhilaration.

"Greg!" he gasped into the phone. "Blimey, am I glad I got ahold of you!"

"_**What's going on, John?"**_ asked Lestrade, over a sound that likely him shutting his office door. _**"You don't usually call me on my mobile when we're not on a case. Is everything alright with you guys?"**_

"No Greg, it's not. Sherlock's gone into labour, and he's been at it all night. We called for an ambulance, but that was two hours ago. We don't know if anyone will be able to get to us in time."

Lestrade was silent for a moment, not easy for someone other than Sherlock to achieve. But after a moment's pondering, he stammered, _**"We – well, what do you want me to do? I mean, I want to help you guys, but what else is there left to do? You're a doctor, and you've called for help."**_

"That's just it, Greg," said John. "You're at Scotland Yard, right?"

"_**Yeah, I am."**_

"You'll know about the situation outside then. The ambulance likely won't be able to get here before Sherlock is ready to push. The emergency operator almost refused to send for one! What I'm trying to say is that what we really, really need is for someone to take us to the hospital."

"_**You want me to risk my life driving in this apocalyptic blizzard to take a laboring Sherlock Holmes to Saint Bart's…?"**_

"You'll be driving a police vehicle. You'll have more precedence in the streets than just any sod driving out there. Greg, I swear to you, I wouldn't even be asking if I wasn't completely desperate. He's getting really close, and I don't know how much longer he'll be able to hold on."

There was another long pause, and just when John thought his head would explode, he heard, _**"Alright, I'll come as fast as I can. But you guys will owe me big for this one."**_

"Thank you! Thank you Greg!" cried John, and he hung up as Mrs. Hudson reentered the flat with a mound of towels and a roll of thick string. She rushed off to the bedroom, and John walked back into the kitchen to grab a small bowl, filling it with cold water. He quickly grabbed a small washcloth from the bathroom before also heading back to the bedroom. He was at Sherlock's side in an instant.

"Greg's coming, Sherlock," he murmured into his boyfriends ear, massaging his rippling back. "He'll get us out of here. How are you doing?"

"I need the bed," panted Sherlock. "My back, John…my back."

"Alright love, I got you," said John. He hooked two gentle, but sturdy hands under Sherlock's arms, and he helped the writhing man up off the floor. As soon as Sherlock landed on the bed, he turned over onto his back, one hand gripping the sheets while the other rested on his heavy belly. John sat down next to him, and he took the bowl of cool water from Mrs. Hudson. Dipping the washcloth in, he slowly ran it over the hot, sweaty skin of his boyfriend's forehead. Sherlock sighed at the small comfort.

"I'm so stupid," he moaned at the back of his throat, just waiting for the next contraction to hit.

"Aw Sherlock, don't be silly," said John, wiping down Sherlock's neck and chest.

"No John," Sherlock tried to say. "I should have told you earlier. We should have left this morning."

"Sherlock, don't think on it," John told him both firmly and warmly. As much as he would like to hear Sherlock apologize for something for a change, this was just not the time for it. "All I want you to focus on is our baby. You're doing really well, and our son needs you to be strong." To show the depth of his encouragement, John pressed a generous kiss to Sherlock's pale forehead. He gently pushed locks of sweaty black curls out of the detective's face.

"You better not pass out on me, John Watson," Sherlock warned. "You know I can't do this without you."

"No fear," said John, but before he could go on, Sherlock lunged for his hand, his grunts increasing until they were a high scream behind clenched teeth. At the contractions peak, his eyes suddenly burst open with a great shout, and John looked down at the growing wet spot on the sheet between Sherlock's legs. "Because I'm not going anywhere now."

**SH**

Leaning against John's broad chest for support, Sherlock screamed into his boyfriend's shoulder, his fingers digging into the back of his shoulders. The contractions were now one on top of the other, with almost no rest between them. And now that his water had broken, the pressure inside was unbelievable. With every wave of pain, he could feel the baby moving further down into his pelvis.

"I can't take it!" he wailed. "Knock me out, John! Knock me out!"

"You're alright, love. You're doing so well," John encouraged, stroking the back of Sherlock's head. "Focus on your breathing." He shifted his head in the direction of the open bedroom door. "Mrs. Hudson, where's that water?!"

"Right here, darling!" said Mrs. Hudson, rushing in with a tall glass of water for Sherlock to sip. He gulped it down like he hadn't had a drink for weeks.

"Is there anyone out there?" asked John, his heart pounding in his head.

"No," Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "I opened the front door and the snow is up to my waist."

"Bloody hell!" John ground out, and his grasp on Sherlock tightened a bit.

"Do you need me to bring your bag in here?"

John hesitated slightly, but when Sherlock sobbed into his jumper, his instincts as a doctor reared up. "Yes, that would be the best thing." The old woman was off again, her yellow dressing gown blowing in the air behind her. John briefly regretted all of the running around she had been doing that night, and he made a mental note that he would buy her a three month supply of herbal soothers.

Sherlock wilted slightly in John's arms, though he remained on his knees, avoiding putting any more pressure on his nether regions than he needed. "I need to lie down," he panted, letting John slip to his side to help him back down onto the bed. No sooner than his back hit the mattress was he hit by another contraction, and he howled out as he leaned in on himself. Mrs. Hudson reappeared with John's medical bag, and she stroked back sweaty black hair as she wiped him down with the wet cloth.

"John…" croaked Sherlock, speaking through the pained tears that ran down his face. "The pressure…I need to push! Help me!" John crept down to the end of the bed and anxiously slipped his gloved hand in between the other man's legs. He swallowed the hard knot in his throat when he realized that Sherlock was fully open, and he felt the very top of their baby's head at the tips of his fingers.

"Alright Sherlock, this is it," said John, reaching up to take Sherlock's hand. "The baby's on his way now, so stay calm. Just hold Mrs. Hudson's hand and keep on breathing." Taking the cue, Mrs. Hudson took Sherlock's trembling hand in hers, and John reached down into his bag to grab several instruments that had been sterilized in hot water. Sherlock for his part did not protest any of it. He simply continued his frantic panting, trying to resist the strong urge to bear down.

"When I tell you to, I want you to bring your chin to your chest and push as hard as you can," John quickly explained. "Go for as long as you can, and stop when I tell you to. You got that, babe?" Sherlock managed a feeble nod, and he clamped down on Mrs. Hudson's hand. Using John as his focus point, he took in a massive breath, and as soon as he got the nod from his partner, he pushed down with immense strength.

"That's it," coached John from the end of the bed. "Push, push!"

Mrs. Hudson cheered him on with an uplifting voice barely weighed down by her worry, but Sherlock's concentration was not broken. He bore down against the hot, searing pain, tears forcing themselves from his eyes, his grunts caught in his throat. He managed a full minute before he fell back into the pillows with hard pants.

"Well done, Sherlock!" chirped Mrs. Hudson, mopping his sweaty forehead.

"Yes Sherlock, great job," John joined in. "He's moving down. I need you to give another good push, just like tha –,"

John was suddenly cut off by the sound of tremendous footsteps crashing up the stairs to the flat. Everyone jerked their heads to the bedroom door in time to see a tall, hooded figure, soaked to the last seam of his heavy snow clothes. Greg Lestrade gasped for air as he pulled off his puffy jacket.

"My squad car got stuck in a snow drift," he rasped. "Had to walk six blocks in waist deep snow to get here –," It took all of five seconds and the sight of an ingloriously naked Sherlock for him to see the dire situation he had just walked into, and Lestrade almost collapsed against the door behind him.

"Get on his other side, Greg," commanded John, pointing to the opposite side of the bed. "Make sure you support his back when he pushes."

Lestrade took a short moment to process the order, but he soon shook his head, and he stumbled around to the other side of the room, landing on his knees at Sherlock's side. "Oh yeah, you guys really owe me for this one."

"Shut up, you idiot!" Sherlock growled, grabbing hold of the copper's hand. Lestrade had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to prevent the shout at the strength of his grasp. John once again coached Sherlock to push, and the detective obeyed with barely an instruction. With Lestrade's arm around his back, he curled over his bump, bearing down with everything he had.

"Fuck – fuck – fuck – fuck!" he growled, unable to stop the words from coming. The pain and pressure steadily increased, until it peaked at a horrible burn below the waist. Sherlock screamed out, his whole body shaking.

"Oh god!" he cried. "John, it burns!"

"The head is coming, Sherlock," said John, positioning his hands. "I need you to stop pushing for a second so I can ease it out." Appalled at what he had just heard, Sherlock jerked in an attempt to kick the doctor in the head, but Lestrade had ahold of his knee before he could gather full strength, so his protests were reduced to panting through gritted teeth. When the baby's head finally popped out, Sherlock shed tears of relief.

"Alright Sherlock," said John, swallowing his own tears that had started to well up as he stared down at his child's little wrinkled face. "Just one more push for the shoulders, love. Just one more, and it'll be over!"

"You hear that, Sherlock!" yelped Mrs. Hudson. "The baby's almost here!"

"Yeah, you're almost done," Lestrade encouraged. "Just a few more minutes."

But instead of reaping the praise like he always had before, Sherlock fell back onto the bed, shaking his head with his eyes pressed shut. "I can't do it," he muttered. "It's too much."

"Oh no you don't!" snapped John, and he stared straight into his laboring partner's thin face. The words got Sherlock's attention, and though there was a haze of pain and exhaustion, their eyes connected. John continued speaking to Sherlock as only John could, holding the detective's concentration. "Sherlock Holmes, I have never known you to give up on anything, and certainly not at a time like this, not when your son needs you. You've amazed me so much tonight, and I know you can finish this. Just one more push, and we'll have our boy."

Sherlock intently stared at John, and after a deep breath, he closed his eyes again. He shut off the world around him, tuned out the voices, and he delved down into his mind. He could see his reward; his beloved John, the son they would raise together, there in the home they shared. As the contraction reared up inside him, he gathered together every last scrap of muscle, and he gave a tremendous push, suddenly oblivious to the pain of it all.

"Oh Sherlock!"

Sherlock opened his eyes when he heard a high wail in the room, and he looked up to see a weeping John lift their wet, sticky baby onto his abdomen.

"Brilliant, Sherlock! Brilliant!" John exclaimed in spite of himself, already rubbing a towel over the baby to remove the blood and birth fluids. Mrs. Hudson was choking back tears, and Lestrade was staring in absolute awe at what he had just witnessed. Not sure of what else he should do, he gently clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, looking down at the new father with a smile. He then excused himself into the other room, taking a chortling Mrs. Hudson with him.

John leaned forward to lay a proud, passionate kiss on the exhausted detective's lips, which Sherlock gladly accepted. He then turned his attention to his baby boy, cradling him close to his chest. Already, the cries were beginning to quiet, and the baby opened up his weak, but expressive dark blue eyes. Sherlock was never a man of emotion, but even he had to admit how difficult it was to hold it together as he gazed at his newborn son. He wiped away the tear trails on his cheeks as his lips curved into a smile, a smile that made John laugh in immense delight. Neither of them could have been happier as John carefully cut the umbilical cord, tying it off with the string.

He was beginning to clean Sherlock up when John heard more commotion from somewhere in the house. Now it sounded like multiple footsteps were heading up from the ground floor, and Lestrade called out John's name. Wondering if the ambulance had finally arrived, John moved to Sherlock's side with more towels, and he wrapped up his naked partner against the influx of cold air. He then bid him to rest while he could, and turned to the door, ready to report all information to the medics. It was to both of their surprise that they were met by the sight of an expensive, but ruined fur coat, snow-stained suede boots, and a shaking mobile in a lightly gloved hand.

"You lot had better be grateful for this," Anthea grumbled. "One more trip like that, and he'll be looking for a new assistant. You two owe me a new pair of boots. That's rabbit fur lining!"

**SH**

"I don't know why we didn't think to call Mycroft in the first place," John commented from his chair beside Sherlock's hospital bed, nursing a hot cup of decaf coffee. "If I had known that he could scramble up an armored track vehicle for us, we would have been here hours ago."

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a smirk, relaxing against the pile of pillows behind his head. "He would have found out no matter what we did, John. He most likely knew the minute you called for the ambulance. Of course, even if I was desperate, I wouldn't have gone crawling to Mycroft for help, not when he gets to stay all nice and cozy while we get jumbled about through the streets. Honestly, his brother had just given birth. Did he have any consideration at all?"

John chuckled in his throat. "You can definitely tell him that when the man shows up to see his nephew. Lord knows I want to hear his response."

Sherlock rolled his fair eyes, very much loathing the time when he would face his lazy brother again, and he looked down at the swaddled bundle lying asleep in his arms. "Don't you worry," he whispered. "Fat old Mycroft has nothing on you. I know you're already brighter than he ever was, and you're only a few hours old."

The baby cooed in his sleep, and he snuggled deeper into the warmth of Sherlock's chest. In the two hours that they had been at Saint Bart's, the little lad had been properly checked out and cleaned, and was now wrapped up in crisp new cloths. Under the thin knitted hat he wore, wispy tufts of silk soft black hair were already showing the beginnings of a curl. He had John's eyes, but also his nose. And though they were plump with newborn baby fat, there was no doubt of where his lips and cheeks had come from. To John and Sherlock, their son was perfect, even if his birth had been far from it.

"You did good, Sherlock," said John, who was practically spellbound by the sight of his new family. "Who'd have thought that two blokes like us could produce such a beautiful boy?"

"You're not mad, are you?" asked Sherlock. John smirked slightly as he stood up to approach the bed, stroking his little son's face. "Mad? Sherlock, you just had our baby. Why would I be mad?"

"I had our baby in the flat, and it's basically my fault that it happened." Sherlock directed his eyes away from John. "We'll have to toss out all of our bedding now, and I don't think Lestrade will ever recover."

John gave a long sigh, and he smiled at the worn-out detective. "Ah Sherlock, you never do things the easy way. Honestly, if I had to write our son's birth, it probably have would have been at Baker Street in the middle of a catastrophic snowstorm. The way it think of it, it could have been a lot worse."

"True," Sherlock agreed. The baby's hand slipped out from under his blanket, and Sherlock let those chubby little fingers wrap around his. "We could have been held captive like that case in Budapest." John tried to stifle the laugh, but he ultimately failed. He was just in far too good of a mood. Lucky for him, Sherlock seemed to return the sentiment because he was tittering to himself. John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's shoulder, pulling him in close for a kiss.

"You know," he said as they broke apart. "We never did decide on a name."

"Well, it would seem fitting to mark the occasion, though I don't wish to punish the poor child," said Sherlock. "Pity, this would have been much easier if he were a girl." The baby gurgled softly, almost like he was protesting the thought.

"I know where you're going with this, and no, we are not naming our son Phelan."

"Oh come on, John," Sherlock groaned. "January is the Saxon month of the wolf, and as the son of a detective, I think it's highly appropriate."

"Yes, and this is coming from a man named Sherlock," said John. He sat back slightly and thought for a moment. "I do admit though, I like the idea. How about Hunter? It kind of goes along with the idea, and think about it, Sherlock. If he turns out to be anything like you, he'd have a hell of a reputation with a name like that."

"Hunter Watson-Holmes," murmured Sherlock, testing it out for himself, though it didn't take very long for him to decide that he liked it. He smiled down at his son, and John kissed his pale temple. Together, Sherlock and Hunter would cause a lot of trouble, John to himself, and this first adventure was only the first of many to come.

He looked forward to every minute of it.

**SH**

**_Kind and Constructive reviews are always welcome. Thanks!_**


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